


The Man with the Key: An Interlude

by 1bad_joke



Series: The Boy in the Box [3]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Collars, Crossdressing, Dark Jared Padalecki, Depression, Hurt Jensen Ackles, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Manipulation, Obsessive Behavior, Older Jared Padalecki, Oral Sex, Possessive Behavior, Pretty Jensen Ackles, Scent Kink, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:26:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25299838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1bad_joke/pseuds/1bad_joke
Summary: It's words he's heard all his life: Beautiful. Gorgeous. Pretty.Growing up they made him blush and his parents proud, their genetics at work. In his young mind, who doesn't want to be the dashing prince rather than the disgusting toad? The handsome hero of the story? As he got older though, he heard those words more from giggling girls and sneering boys. His smile waned. It outright became a terse, uncomfortable line when he heard them -cocksucker lips- passed between his daddy's friends as they chortled into their Budweisers and asked won't he be a champ and dig around in that cooler and grab them another? Greasy flattery designed to turn his stomach and his skin to crawl. He learned to hate it.Jensen's POV into the state of his new life. (This won't make much sense without reading the previous installments.)
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki
Series: The Boy in the Box [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775725
Comments: 25
Kudos: 44





	The Man with the Key: An Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please read the warnings! If this sort of fic is your jam, I really hope you enjoy it.

Jensen jolts from a deep sleep to a hot mouth on him. The same, aged wooden beams fill his vision -like somehow one of these days it would be any different- as a moan builds in his throat. He bites it back. His hand mechanically lifts off the mattress to sift through soft hair. A groan vibrates around the head of his dick and all the sounds he's been holding back pour out of him like a gut punch. 

Jared likes it when Jensen plays with his hair.

Jensen glances down the slope of his nose and locks eyes with burnt hazel. The older man licks a fat stripe up his shaft and he shudders, toes curling. A rosy-lipped smirk pecks the weeping slit of his cock before stretching wide-wide-wider like a boa devouring its prey. Jared's awful-wonderful mouth _devours_ the whole of him and swallows and swallows. All chokes and nasty slurps. 

For a moment -just a moment- Jensen mistakes his hell for heaven. 

This doesn't happen often, this pleasure. His crossed wires twist as he writhes beneath Jared's bobbing head. He knows he can't last long. Fingers tangle in wavy hair and tugs that suction closer. In return, large hands grip the sharp juts of his hip bones to hold him in place, nothing new there. 

He keens at the wriggle of a tongue and his teeth clamp down on his own tongue to keep it quiet, because if he doesn't, more than inarticulate animal sounds would leave him and he had no idea what words would spill out. _“I hate you. God, I fucking hate you”_? Likely. But he could imagine it being much worse than that. So much more worse, because... wonder if he doesn't say hate? 

That terrible thought triggers his orgasm. His back bows as he shoots ribbons downs the slick squeeze of Jared's throat. Jensen's mouth, round and soundless. Of course, the older man gulps it all eagerly, his greed for any evidence of Jensen's pleasure a sloppy, needy thing, and Jensen's flying, flying until he's not. Oversensitive, he slips his fingers from the wild mess of Jared's hair and nudges him away with a whimper. Not that Jared goes willingly; he withdraws slowly with kitten licks and lingering kisses; one of which lands on the tip of his cock. Jensen watches this and blinks and wants to look away but can't.

Puffy lips pull into a bright, dopey grin. Raw and used, the older man rasps, “Morning, Beautiful.”

:::

It's words he's heard all his life: Beautiful. Gorgeous. _Pretty_.

Growing up they made him blush and his parents proud, their genetics at work. In his young mind, who doesn't want to be the dashing prince rather than the disgusting toad? The handsome hero of the story? As he got older though, he heard those words more from giggling girls and sneering boys. His smile waned. It outright became a terse, uncomfortable line when he heard them - _cocksucker lips_ \- passed between his daddy's friends as they chortled into their Budweisers and asked won't he be a champ and dig around in that cooler and grab them another? Greasy flattery designed to turn his stomach and his skin to crawl. He learned to hate it.

Sometimes he'd stare at himself in the mirror, resentment bubbling in his chest. Those big eyes, so much greener than his father's with long, sooty lashes that rivaled his sister's done up in mascara. Too big lips - _cocksucker lips_ \- the girls would coo over and the boys would leer at. A delicate, upturned button of a nose. Those freckles... those fucking freckles. Angel kisses, his mom would call them while none of his other siblings were cursed with the same affliction. They'd multiply like hives when he was out in the sun, so he'd have to keep himself pale and sick-looking despite a high SPF.

Jensen would stare at the amalgamation of his features, feeling the ghost touch of entitled hands and hearing those words-words-words--- Short, blunt nails would drag down one smooth cheek, and then he'd study the angry scratches left behind. If he made himself ugly, the attention would stop, right? Or it could be worse. Soon enough the marks would fade, and he'd be back to Pretty Princess Jenny and hating himself over his own petty conceit.

It is better than being the toad.

So he swallowed his complaints and quietly accepted his existence as ornamental. Those sweet, wretched words gradually lost all meaning. A callus built. It taught him who to avoid - _keep your head down_ \- and if they couldn't be avoided, be polite, because he'd come to find people didn't like being told no, but some in particular really didn't take it well. Luckily, he left home before anything truly therapy worthy happened. Some cornered propositions, more than a few wandering hands, an unnerving encounter with Father Benjamin that forced Jensen to question his sanity, and Mike Weatherly and his goons making it their mission to hunt him for sport; see, nothing scarring, but it was enough that small town living became more daunting than living anonymous hundreds of miles away. Also, it was bad enough little Jenny Ackles was too quiet to be seen as smart and too reserved to be popular, but at least he was pleasant to look at. It was just so darn confusing why he didn't seem to be chasing any girls.

That's what topped it all off. The absolute horror to discover Kyle Wagner in seventh grade was right the first time he spat, “Faggot” at Jensen, because he was just too pretty to be a boy. A mortifying locker room revelation with stolen peeks at toned muscles and flat abs. His small town bled red, white, and blue, and dammit, it didn't have space for rainbows; the secret passes from his male peers notwithstanding. So that realization only lit a fire under his ass to get out. Armed with three years worth of yard work pay, a duffle of clothes, a high school diploma hot off the press, and a cool peck on the cheek from his mom, because she understood how he didn't quite fit in, he left.

The leaving, it turned out, was easy. It was everything else that came after was incredibly hard.

Money ran out quick as soon as he stepped off the Grey Hound. Everything was so much more expensive. His shoe box-sized apartment alone drained his savings within the first two months. Cold showers and ramen noodle dinners. Finding a stable, well-paying job was an exhausting exercise in futility, but not for his lack of trying. Too friendly coworkers or handsy supervisors and his own reserve misinterpreted as aloof and stuck up. Eventually, he'd be let go to make the work atmosphere “less hostile.” Jensen, each time, would leave without a fuss. 

_Keep your head down. Be polite._

Many times he'd stagger into his apartment after a long day bone-tired, stinking, and near tears clutching another bill past due or a note from his landlord demanding rent. Many of those times he considered moving back or being honest during those covert phone calls home at whatever establishment currently paying him below minimum wage and asking his parents for help. All of those times he chose his pride and painted a much sunnier picture of his reality. His dad was always vocal in his admiration for Jensen striking out on his own and only a real man would pull himself up by his bootstraps. Whatever weakness tempting Jensen to seek help would evaporate on his tongue. This, he would stick it out no matter what.

No matter what came in the form of eight months bouncing from job to menial job until he landed at his latest stint as a bus boy for a small Greek restaurant. He was taking out the trash, huffing and puffing and struggling to maneuver the twin, hefty bags into the full-to-bursting dumpster. When he turned around -his wrist swiping across his sweaty forehead- he was faced with a squat, unremarkable man watching him from the back door of the business next door. Beetle eyes appraised him from behind smudged spectacles. An oiliness exuded from his pores and seeped into his words.

“You're a pretty one. How old are you?”

The sour twist to Jensen's face had nothing to do with the stench of garbage filling the narrow alley. He made to head back inside, his focus drilling into the sun-bleached pavement.

“I can offer you a job that'll pay you double or even triple what you're making now for half the work.”

He stopped short. Looking back, he doesn't know if it had been indignation or a hunger pain snarling in his gut that stopped him. His hands balled into fists.

“I'm not a whore,” he ground out through gritted teeth. This wasn't the first time someone offered him money to use him. There was no way he would ever sink that low.

Smoke burst from the stranger's mouth in a slow, dry chuckle. A stubby finger smartly tapped the ashes to the asphalt. “Nah, kid, you've got me all wrong. You're good looking, but you're missing a pussy for me to be interested. I'm offering you a job -not porn, before you get your panties in a twist- where all you've got to do is sit and look pretty, maybe wear a little less clothing, and people will pay just to look at you.” His thin, yellow grin broadened at Jensen's disbelieving look. “S'not stripping either, although you do have to put on a show.”

_Be polite_ \-- A scoff left Jensen without conscious thought. “And have random guys pawing at me, no thank you. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work--”

“You'd be behind glass. No one would touch you,” called after him. His hand paused on the door knob. “It's easy money, _but_... only if you're interested.”

Inside, his ears could pick up the clatter of dishes, the loud back and forth of the line cooks, and the manager shouting for the whereabouts of “that useless bus boy, tables six and nine are a mess.” All at once, many things struck Jensen: The heavy ache in his bones, the perpetual yawn riding on every other of his exhales, the fact he had to use the fire escape that morning to avoid his landlord's knocking, the rumbling of his stomach, and the acute sensation of his big toe poking through a hole in his sock and rubbing against the humid sole of his worn sneaker. His latest paycheck wasn't enough to cover half of his bills, and to be honest, he was so _tired_ of struggling to keep his head above water.

His eyes warily met the stranger's. He gulped, mouth dry. “... No one would touch me?”

The stranger stamped out his cigarette with a triumphant smile.

His first day he was shepherded into a dark room with the simple instructions that if the light went green, show time and -very important- be sexy. Staring into his murky reflection where anonymous people were going to watch him. With only a stool, a spotlight, and dim red bulbs to keep him company, “Regret” felt like an anemic summation. He almost turned around on the spot and left right there, would tell Stan -the stranger and his new boss- thanks but no thanks, he couldn't do this, he didn't know what he was thinking when he accepted-- Seriously, who just says yes to some rando in an alley to striptease in the back of an adult book store? If his parents could see him now--

Then a light went green and well... it was an unmitigated disaster.

He froze. In every sense. His body, his lungs, especially his brain. Stalling and stalling as he just stood there worrying his lip. Through dark glass, he could make out the vague outline of a man and nothing more beyond that. Someone was watching him -had paid to be there- and was waiting. Waiting for him to do something. He trembled with nerves.

_Okay, be sexy. Be sexy-be sexy-be sexy._

Problem was he didn't quite know how to do that. It had always been 'Keep your head down and be polite.' This was foreign territory. So for ten, excruciatingly long minutes, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt and generally feeling like an ass. There was little reprieve after that. 

The day dragged with red and green lights, the paralysis that came when there was more than one green light lit. He thought it would never end. When all the bulbs went red, the door at his back clicked and a perky blonde poked her head in to relieve him. It was Cindi with an “I”'s shift.

When he saw Stan waiting for him, Jensen quitting was on the tip of his tongue, but the older man spoke over him congratulating him on a successful first day. A few of their loyal customers were raving about him. Although he wouldn't be paid until the end of the week, his cut for that day alone would be at least a hundred ten... a hundred and ten bucks for five hours... that's all Jensen registered. Who knew he lived in an area crawling with perverts? He would be lucky to make that after twelve hours of back breaking labor. He tried to wrap his head around that as Stan went on to explain it had been a slow day and once he gathered a clientele, his takeaway would only increase. Oh, and the shy virgin act was great, but maybe if he could jazz it up a little, that would be great, thanks, see you tomorrow.

Evolution came slow and scary. The day he finally removed his shirt, groundbreaking; the spike in profits that day, even better. It was really only a matter of shutting his eyes. He studied Cindi and the other few part-time performers: The females with their skimpy outfits and the one other man built like Mr. Universe hefting his dumbbells. Jensen knew instinctively he could never bring the muscle needed with his money-starved frame, too lean for his height and disinterested in weightlifting as entertainment. The women had curves he obviously lacked. Cindi, the only girl he crossed paths with the most often, was a huge believer in costumes. Fun, busty, little characters with outrageous props (mainly sex toys). Dildos she would nab from the front of the store and declare, “Product Promotion.” Jensen didn't know what she did with her time in that room and he wouldn't ask, but he had gleaned this was her only gig and she carried designer bags and owned the newest iPhone, so whatever she was doing was working. He wanted that same financial security.

A negligee from Good Will here, drug store mascara and high shine gloss there, and a lot of awkward practice in front of the mirror. Red-faced. An uncomfortable exercise when he usually only glanced at his reflection long enough to shave. Over time, it became easier to perform, treating his reflection in the near black glass as his bathroom mirror. Just pretend he was by himself and just... be, whatever that meant at the time. Play. He could relax, and it didn't have to mean anything.

There was something strangely liberating about putting his appearance to use. After years of disdain for himself, to suddenly embracing his looks as a means to finance himself was an odd hurdle to tackle in his brain, but finally his pathetic burden was paying off, literally. The fact no one could talk to him or ever touch him helped with that greatly. Sometimes, he found himself having fun; smug even at times when he saw a green glow steadily for five minutes, ten, a whole hour.

Not that he didn't have his stumbles or spurts of shame. The mere thought of his parents witnessing him perched on a stool done up like a cheap trollop (his mom would say) and blowing kisses to strange men would stop him cold, but the paycheck kept him on track. His bills were getting paid and with a sudden uptick in viewership -one person seemed to routinely stay and watch his entire shift- he was finally saving money, even investing back into his work: More clothes to slip off, more make up, and shockingly enough, candy. His audience loved him with a lollipop. One day, Jensen had actually gathered the courage to visit the local college but only loitered around long enough to grab a brochure thinking _maybe... maybe_.

As much as this job had paid well, he didn't want to be doing this forever. He couldn't. Maybe he could get an education. Maybe he could do something with a life he previously wasted on hiding. Who knows, maybe he could start dating seriously--

That's when he should have known. The second that maybe he could get his shit together, it all fell apart. No, not fell, crashed. Blindsided him in a way he should have considered. The occasional visit to the free clinic to check his health, money stashed for a rainy day, he made the fatal error of making plans.

Jensen should have run as soon as he saw the man with the golden eyes holding a bouquet of roses out to him.

:::

Broad shoulders rise from the unconscious splay of his legs as Jared crawls up the length of him, eclipsing Jensen's vision. He doesn't even flinch anymore when Jared goes to kiss him. He tastes of heat and bitter salt.

“Thank you,” he murmurs with flushed cheeks. Knowing what's expected, he reaches out for the elastic waistband of the other man's pajama pants, but Jared stops him. Jensen can only lay there at a loss. Nothing much surprises him anymore, so it's been awhile.

Jared correctly assesses his confusion, because a soft, deep rumble of amusement leaves him as he settles on the bed beside him, Jensen's hand held captive in his. “I'm good. No, today is all about you.”

Jensen's stare is flat and uncomprehending.

“Just a sec.” Jared jumps out of the bed and moves across the room. As Jensen scoots to sit up -wincing at the mild sting in his backside from last night- he contemplates Jared's uncharacteristic refusal for reciprocation; it's odd, but he's not going to argue it. He also needs to piss and shower, although he doubts he can accomplish that in privacy--

“Surprise!” Jared announces as a tray is placed with a flourish onto his lap. On it is a small, delicate vase holding a frail, periwinkle flower and a breakfast of eggs, bacon, and fresh fruit; at the center of it all sits a clumsily-frosted cupcake with a lone, lit candle. Its flame looks strangely weak and unreal in the streak of sunlight cutting across the room from his one window.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.” Smiling lips land on his brow, not that Jensen feels it. He's gone cold, and his legs are numb.

A year... He's been here a year. Just over eleven months to be more exact, but that doesn't matter. **It doesn't matter.** Days tend to bleed together and blur here and makes even the day before yesterday hazy to remember. 

He blinks and doesn't realize his eyes are glossed over with tears until they streak down his cheeks and land on the comforter bunched over his naked lap with soft plops. A lump in his throat threatens to choke him as Jared's voice warbles off-key the tune of Happy Birthday to him.

:::

Jensen thinks a lot about that moment when he stooped down to tie his damn shoe and was startled by mile long legs and beautiful roses whose scent hit him like a punch to the face. He thinks a lot about how that moment was his only chance. That afterward, all of his attempts to escape would fail. He let doors stop him, two story drops to the ground that would have surely shattered the bones in his legs, the man... He's so much bigger than him, stronger, too. Jensen let fear of something as trivial as getting hurt stop him. His weakness. It still rings true to this day. 

He's still afraid, and he hates himself for it.

Back then, when he'd woken up in a strange bed wrapped in even stranger arms -dizzy and head pounding- he was rightly terrified. He didn't know where he was -is- with only a vague recollection. He supposes he could have thrown himself out the window right then instead of at the door. Would that have been better?

At the center of it all is the man who took him. Jared. Shaggy, chestnut hair. Tall and tan. Handsome but older. In another life, maybe-- No. Jensen should have dropped everything and ran as soon as he was confronted by that wide, dimpled smile. Should have screamed for help when Jensen realized the man was a customer. _”But you were looking at me every single time.”_ Should have dashed back inside where Stan or even that creepy clerk, Tim, could be lurking, but his own insides had locked up. Old habits took over: _Keep your head down. Be polite._ Little did he fully absorb at the time Jared was -is- crazy.

Because Jared loves him. He tells Jensen so every day. He's all smiles until he's not.

Outside of shouted demands to release him, Jensen didn't talk much, but that was okay. Jared talked enough for the two of them. He wanted to know everything about Jensen: Where he grew up, his childhood, his favorite song, what books altered him, his likes, his dislikes, every last detail. Jensen couldn't ever find it in himself to answer, baffled as he was by the other man's overwhelming interest. When that happened, Jared would attempt to fill the silence with stories about his own life. He talked about how this was the house he grew up in and how the basement used to scare him when he was little but it's become his favorite place in the house. His brother and sister and his saint of a mother. Passing comments about his father suggested that with Jared, the apple didn't fall far from the tree. They were an insulated family, his father against having people over and loathe to let anyone out of sight for long, so he grew up not having many close friends. That didn't much change until he met his wife-- ” **Ex** wife” he reassured with a look of alarm like Jensen felt anything from that information beyond mild curiosity. Fourteen years wasted on a marriage that seemed to make everyone else around him happier than himself. Nine and half of those years spent rotting in a cubicle. 

All this was told to Jensen with the sad lift of a grin. The gold in his eyes dim and listless, a mirror to Jensen's own watered down verdigris. It almost had Jensen feeling sorry for the older man. A pity affirmed by the sudden rising sun of his face as he explained how all that changed when he saw Jensen in his little box and he knew, just knew, that they were meant to be. The reminder that maybe his situation could have been prevented if Jensen had been smarter -more cautious- had his stomach turning, and he quietly suggested if they could stop talking, he had a headache. Jared had rushed to fetch him medicine, but by the time he returned Jensen was feigning sleep.

Jensen had been naïve in thinking the older man would realize the gravity of what he'd done and return him. Or- or someone would notice he was missing, but his parents were used to long stretches of not hearing from him and Stan would assume he'd flaked out after collecting his paycheck that day; Jensen wouldn't have been the first. He hadn't tried to make any friends, unless coworker familiarity with Cindi counted. The cops would show up any day now, but there were no sirens in the distance, only quiet.

Day after day, Jensen realized a different gravity: No one was coming for him. No one would even miss him.

He couldn't even save himself and when he tried, he'd woken up fuzzy and cotton-mouthed chained in a basement. He had screamed himself hoarse, vocal chords as raw as the skin beneath his shackle. Muscles burning from pulling, twisting, and yanking. He noticed it made the other man grimace and retreat up the stairs, and Jensen could only hysterically think, _“Good. You can suffer, too.”_ If all it took to keep those longing, unwelcome stares off him, he would shout and tear at the chain bloody and spit cruelty until--

Large hands wrapped around his neck, and he couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe, and he couldn't get away, and he learned.

Lungs on fire and cradled in Jared's lap, Jensen learned.

:::

With Jared's sunny encouragement, he blows the candle out through dry, unfeeling lips. Jared whoops and claps and insists Jensen not tell him what he wished for or otherwise it won't come true. Jensen's mind had been static. He smells the candle's acrid smoke.

He would wish for a great many things, but as they say about wishing in one hand and shitting in the other...

He nibbles his way through breakfast under the older man's eager to please scrutiny. Chewing is a chore and each tiny bite feels insurmountable with each swallow, even when aided by gulps of precious coffee. His thoughts, whirring and whirring. The cupcake with its blackened wick is sweet and sparks a sugar headache, but he forces himself through it. Jared pauses his chattering to take him softly by the chin and lick away a spot of icing smeared at the corner of Jensen's mouth. The scalding flick of tongue elicits a torn shiver; the tender intimacy draws him in while the delusion repels him, but he will accept the rich flavor of chocolate passed between them. He will stay still.

:::

Jensen has learned he has to be careful around the other man. He's learned he is relying on Jared in all things: Food, water, a home (that's what Jared keeps saying, this is his home now), and even oxygen (but Jared promises he had lost his head and he would never, ever do that again). Jensen's learned if he doesn't listen, that wouldn't be good, and what he already considers bad, could always get worse.

Especially when he has to stay still so Jared could touch him.

Soft touches to his hand or nape felt familiar; they felt like they did back in his home town; they make his skin crawl. Intimate touches of spider fingers through his hair, thick arms caging him in and holding him close in bed, or a tender thumb wiping away his tears. Jensen's eyes exist as wrung out and itchy, bloodshot holes in his head. Jared tells him not to cry, even though he's so pretty while he does so.

Jensen never cried more than the first time what he knew he'd been pushing to the back of his mind was coming. Ever since he saw the hungry glint in hazel eyes that never quite leaves, because Jared is a big boy and he is insatiable.

He couldn't stay still as the other man tore him open -dirty, wrong, **weak** \- his brain overloaded with the burning invasion and the stream of love declarations drowning his ears and settling in between, poisonous and heavy and insistent. They circled round and round inside him like water down a drain, leaving him carved out and hollow. Afterward, as he laid there shivering and too tender to move, he realized with a surety that this was his life now. There was no escaping it. He's tried and fucked up and only made matters worse for him. He just needed to be patient.

And when it wasn't... that, Jared does treat him nice. He cooks for him real, home-cooked meals, the likes he hadn't had in so long. The dreary suite (which was nicer to ascribe than a basement) is comparative to his old apartment, even though the shower is an exposed, mildew-damp corner with unpredictable temperatures. If he stands on the bed, he can just see through the tiny window and treasure blue sky.

Then there are the gifts: More flowers that sit and wilt and fill the room with the sweet scent of decay. A clothing rack holds an assortment of silk and lace, much nicer than anything Jensen himself could ever afford. But mixed among them, like relics, are his own garments he used to perform in. They look dull and drab hanging between the colorful and new. Jared insists he wears them every now and then, makes him feel warm and nostalgic, he says. Tight and strappy, sheer and flowing, corseted and biting. Decadent and spoiled. His loose pajamas had disappeared without explanation. There's not much else Jensen's allowed to wear these days, unless he's nude. Even then, he's bundled in a blanket to protect from the drafty basement. Consistently chilled and uncomfortable.

:::

They shower, and for once Jensen doesn't mind the claustrophobic press of Jared's body around him. The hot brand of his erection prodding Jensen's waist and the small of his back. The pipe spits cold water today, and Jared's body runs hotter than most. His hands never quite leave Jensen as he works shampoo through Jensen's overgrown hair and cleans his body with warm massaging meticulousness, even going so far as to kneel and slip loving fingers between the shackle and Jensen's perpetually chaffed ankle. The touch and soap sting. Instead, Jensen focuses on how nice it feels to be cared for like this and not that he's a grown man. Jared's good to him, and he can't think about that any other way. It's easier.

Towel-dried and freezing, Jared insists he wait until he opens his presents before they get dressed. Green eyes idly trace the strong lines of Jared's back down to the tight swell of his ass. Jensen has a decent guess as to what one of the packages stacked at the base of the stairs is, and he isn't disappointed. (Disappointed isn't the right word.) A glittering chain-mail appears shapeless and pools like liquid in his palms. Jared doesn't have to say anything; Jensen knows what to do. He rises off the bed and takes his new present with him to the moderately-sized mirror of his vanity Jared trusted to leave him with. (“Now, no breaking and trying to cut me or yourself with, promise me. We've been doing so good lately.”) And Jensen hasn't, yet. 

The garment is a puzzle he twists and turns until he more or less discerns the top from the bottom. The metallic fabric is cold against his bare skin and hangs heavy on him, just long enough to brush mid-thigh. The chain-mail hugs his backside and smooths down his front, doing little to hide the bump of his genitals. Diamond strings drape across his shoulders and dip down his spine. Strips of bare skin run down each side in a serpentine curve and are only held together by more delicate, sparkling chains. It's by far the most extravagant of all his outfits. Garish like a disco ball. On his pale, gaunt figure, he looks and feels like broken glass. He squirms and plucks at it. When he turns, light refracts off him in kaleidoscope specks and dances around the room. They paint the older man's expression in colorful shades of awe.

“You look...” Jared's tongue flickers across his thin lips. His adam's apple bobs with a heavy gulp. He doesn't blink, eyes scanning and taking Jensen all in. Easing off the bed, he stands to his full height, naked. His cock is hard and practically dripping in the rainbow glow. A small, narrow box rests in his hands. 

“Come here,” rasps across the room, and Jensen does as he's told.

:::

It's not unlike working at the adult shop, except more nerve-wracking and vaguely humiliating and he can't leave. Footsteps above him and the groan of the stairs is his green light. The other man has certain expectations. With his eyes averted to the floor and the marks around his throat faded to phantom reminders, Jensen does what he must to reach those expectations. It's rare when things don't end in pain in some form, Jensen often times on his back and split open or his mouth used with a thumb digging boney into the hinge of his jaw and thoughts of teeth are an action with unknown consequences. One time, Jared had pulled his chair up to the bed and asked Jensen to play with himself. Legs akimbo and his hand tugging at taffy flesh, he had to stop at his dick's first stirrings of interest. Face on fire and babbling through tears how he couldn't do it until Jared had scooped him close and rocked him to an uneasy sleep.

Sleep. He does that a lot, too. There's only so much of daytime television he can watch to pass the time. He sleeps when he's not even tired. He sleeps, because there are days where he's nothing but tired, the other man frowning and cooing over his wide yawns. He even pretends to be asleep so Jared will go away and do whatever he does up there, but that usually backfires in turning over to find hazel eyes glued to him. When he dreams, it's all disjointed images that fill him with a melancholy that follows him into waking. Jared's handsome face stalks him in his dreams, and those times he wakes and stares with dry, stinging eyes at the beams above him.

There really is so escaping the older man. The more devastating fact is Jensen can't really find it in himself to be upset about that anymore. Acceptance feels easier than constantly fighting-fighting-fighting.

He's much like a toy or an expensive pet. Jared feeds him, cleans up after him, dresses him like a doll and plays with him, but always makes sure Jensen is locked back up when he's through. Sometimes, Jensen doesn't feel quite human. His existence simple but not exactly uncomplicated. He has idle thoughts: What day is it? Has anyone noticed he's gone—has his parents? Would his picture end up on the six o' clock news? Jared chose the pink skirt, does he want a bare, baby face or smokey eyes and juicy red lips?

His eyes no longer follow the small key that glints silver in the light as it appears in Jared's gigantic palm to unlock his shackle long enough to change clothes. Before his cheeks would threaten to melt off as he balances on the bed's edge and holds out one leg daintily for the other man to cup like Prince Charming sliding on Cinderella's glass slipper but now it's part of the routine they share. Procedure on his end, although a gentle exercise of devotion to Jared each and every time. Jensen won't admit his pinched expression softens at the large man's kneeling worship. 

Before his focus would be divided between the other man's instructions and that key. He'd brainstorm creative ways to pick pocket it, but Jared's cautious and makes sure to toss his pants well out of reach of the radius of the chain. Jensen would dare to plan beyond attaining the literal key to his freedom and use it to unlock the shackle that's become a normalized weight around his ankle and run and run and run, up those stairs to a front door he was so close to reaching once, through it and out-out-out.

Now his mind glosses over those plans. Even if he got out, then what? If there's a car, he'd waste time looking for keys and he'd definitely be caught. If he runs, his mostly sedentary lifestyle ensures he wouldn't get far with his shrunk, wasted muscles. 

And if he left, what--- what would Jared do without him?

:::

The collar is made up of thick, black leather, buttery soft to the touch with a teardrop diamond that rests in the hollow between his clavicles. Jensen wonders if it's real and determines it doesn't matter. It clicks snug enough around his neck that he knows it isn't intended to come off any time soon. Another key tucked away. He knows he won't see it again for awhile as it gets tossed aside. The jagged whorls of Jared's fingertips trace over and around the collar, dipping underneath to collect the sweat already building there. 

“Perfect.”

When the older man guides him back to the mirror, Jensen only has eyes for the new accessory adorning his neck. The pressure clinging to his throat reminds him of strong hands squeezing, squeezing months -was it months?- ago. The diamond dangles prettily from it. It glitters as it spins and swings when Jared bends him over and takes him right there with blink and you miss it prep. The constant use keeps him open most days. The vanity littered with cosmetics rattle with the rhythm, and a tube of mascara clatters to the floor. Hands braced against the rickety table, Jensen stares as the rock catches and twists in the light with its steady back and forth, pendulum motion. Snarled praise layered between harsh pants blow hot against his ear while hands grope and roam at the flipped up dress. 

One of Jared's palms knead at his groin, because Jared makes it his mission for them to come together at the same time. (It's more romantic that way, he insists.) On his next thrust, Jared presses close and grinds in, hitting Jensen's prostate. Faded green eyes flutter closed, and Jensen still sees sparkles behind his eyelids. A keen is pulled from deep inside him and oozes from his lips like a bleeding wound. He always bleeds for Jared in some form or another. His own cock, fully hard now, bobs between his legs to the tempo of the rock thump-thump-thumping against his chest. The other man grips him tight and jerks him a desperate speed. Jensen's spine melts, and his knees knock together. When Jared succeeds in his goal and Jensen comes with Jared chasing after him, Jensen watches their flushed reflections for the first time. Through the haze, they do make a handsome couple. Jared towering over him and gazing at him with a dark intensity. The shiny, red head of Jensen's cock peeks through his fist while his other hand snakes up to the collar -fingers hooking over the leather- with the sensation of filling Jensen's ass in searing pulses... Never has Jensen felt so thoroughly owned.

… and he believes it.

Later, they're cleaned up as much as Jared will allow, which isn't much. A wasted shower replaced by a damp cloth between Jensen's legs and the skirt set to rights. Jensen would prefer another shower, but the other man has a thing for the combined smell of them, holding Jensen close and snuffling at random points on is body like a dog trying to memorize his scent. Jensen's gotten used to many things, but gluttonous inhales through a sharp nose poking at his inner elbow or hairline never fails to color his face a boiling tomato. When he mentions changing into something more comfortable, the not quite glare he receives stems all other thoughts on the matter. Once, he had spent six hours in a boned corset; he would be fine.

“So birthday boy, what do you wanna do today? We can check if there's any new movies--”

“Actually, um...” Jensen finds himself speaking without having given it much thought. It's been awhile since he's acted on any impulse. He sits up from his slump against Jared's chest and turns to catch the momentary grimace at the separation he's created. He swallows back his reservations. “I was thinking maybe we could-- we could go... out to dinner or something?”

He ducks his head to hide his wince. In the prickling seconds that follow, he dares to glance up to see an absent smile with an arched brow.

“Go out to dinner? But I've already got that chicken dish you like in the crock pot upstairs.”

“Oh...” He sinks, only for a moment. Tentative fingers reach up to pet at the older man's chest, brushing through coarse hair and alighting on a nipple. The small gasp he provokes emboldens him. “I just thought a change of scenery might be nice.”

“Why would we need a change of scenery when we have each other?”

Quickly wetting his lips, he pushes them into a pout. “I just thought it would be nice is all.” He misses Jared's murmured, “I don't think it--” to continue on with “You asked and I just wanted to do something special for my birthday. Couldn't you please consider it--”

“Jensen, enough!” The sudden angry bark severed Jensen's voice and stilled his stroking fingers. The other man's easy recline against the headboard is ramrod straight. Jared glares down at him as shadows carve lines around his snarled mouth and between his brows. “We are not leaving, and that's final.”

Jensen jumps, snatching his hand back. His pulse has gone rabbit quick. He keeps his focus on the rapid rise and fall of Jared's chest and tries to keep his own breaths slow and calm. All the while he's internally kicking himself. That was stupid, pushing like that. He's got no right to be surprised.

Just as he opens his mouth to apologize and possibly salvage the day, the other man's tension doesn't so much as deflate as it curls in on itself into a dejected hunch. A sigh gusts between them and alleviates some of the pressurized silence.

“I shouldn't have snapped like that.” 

Jensen's chin fits in the juncture between Jared's pointer and thumb. His long fingers span the whole side of Jensen's head while a thumb settles onto the meat of his cheek, drawing their faces together close and earnest. Jensen's green gaze slides to the side, stubborn in spite of it all.

“Jen, you understand this. You know I can't stand anyone looking at what's mine.”

Jensen lets them dance around the real reason. Lips bunched from the firm cradle of Jared's hand, he pushes out, “They won't, I promise. They'll know I'm only yours. Please, Jared?”

In his periphery, he sees the flat line of the older man's mouth purse into almost non-existence and the sway of his shaggy hair in the throes of a head shake.

“You know, you're not the first man that's looked at me.” His words, his last stand, come out small and mulish. The last rise of frustration before the collapse of acceptance.

A sharp sniff. Jared's thumb stabs into his cheeks, sparking enough ache to draw Jensen's faraway look onto him. The expanded obsidian of his pupils reflect the pallid shape of his face while sucking him in like twin black holes. From the set of his face to his voice is sweetly serious.

“No, but I will be the last.”

Jensen respires. He jerks his face out of Jared's grasp and dodges efforts to be reeled back in.

“Hey, hey, let's not go back to that. You didn't like being tied up, remember?”

The sick knot in his stomach sits like lead. Jensen shakes his head, because no, he doesn't want to go back to being tied up. His wrist still clicks. 

In the welcoming spread of Jared's arms, Jensen climbs into his lap, small and balled up tight. Jared hugs him, and it feels like suffocating.

“You know I love you,” crawls into his ear and burrows there, itching.

Somber, Jensen buries his face into the other man's neck and responds, “Yeah, Jared, I know you do.”

A contented sigh. Another squeeze as lips peck the crown of his head. Jensen doesn't ever say it back, and Jared never pushes him to. Just the mere acknowledgment is enough to appease the older man. Like requited by omission.

This is what he gets for avoiding men like Jared, because Jensen is here, isn't he? And that's not changing, hasn't for a year in any case. It's like trying to run from cruel fate. Jared was always, in one way or another, to Jensen... inevitable.

And yeah, Jensen wishes he'd never met Jared; he thinks this, turning his head in the sweaty curve where Jared's neck meets his shoulder and pressing a feather-light, chaste kiss there. At the older man's surprised intake, he knows he did good.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I see one last part after this to finish the series. Any kudos and/or comments are treasured. Stay safe out there, everyone!


End file.
